


As We Know It

by alemontree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Caretaking, Coming of Age, Desert Island, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Stranded, Survival, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemontree/pseuds/alemontree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>this is the way the world ends-- not with a bang but a whimper</i>
</p><p>After the explosion of a small aircraft over the Atlantic, fifteen-year-old John Watson finds himself stranded on an island with a mysterious boy who knows nothing of the world aside from what John can show him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is the Way the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my fic.
> 
> A few things to address in the event of concerns: 
> 
> a) This story, particularly the beginning, includes graphic depictions of injury, a minor character death, and some physical and mental suffering in the aftermath of an aircraft explosion. Please be mindful if you find this particularly upsetting. It gets better. I promise!
> 
> b) Though this is a coming of age story and there are frank discussions of puberty and inexplicit depictions of bodily functions and nascent sexual discovery, this is treated extremely delicately and serves the purpose of crafting a realistic story. Nothing is gratuitous, and there will be no explicit sexual content until the boys are of age.
> 
> c) As you can imagine, I've never been stranded on a desert island, and though I have completed some basic research, the bulk of my information and inspiration comes from fiction novels. Here be some inaccuracy (particularly in regards to the weather--I've resulted to cliches, here, I'm afraid).
> 
> Thanks so much. I hope you'll read and enjoy!

Blood is everywhere.

John’s mouth tastes of metal and his skin crawls as he shrinks inside himself, watching cold, dead eyes loll about, watching red-brown liquid pour from the pilot’s ear, and feeling the impenetrable weight of his father’s dead body bob about in the water as he holds his hand and cries— _pleads_ —for his life, for Da to open his eyes and part his lips and _breathe_. Say something, anything, move a muscle, blink.

He’s swallowing iron, salt water is stinging the cuts on his arms, his thin bottom lip is split and his eyes will be black and his father’s turning grey as the ocean water, grey as the little Cessna, grey as the smoke and the pilot’s burning beard.

John knows he should be thinking of what to do, of course, of course, he isn't _stupid_ , should think of where to find the flares, how to use the radio, is there a radio, are there flares, is the pilot dead or just badly injured is there a tracking device how is he meant to save himself his da his da his da’s cold, dead hand. 

All John can think of is that Da will never again touch his shoulder or smile at Mum or go to work or sleep at night or have tea as he reads the paper and-

John knows not what he sees. His vision is blurred, he is going to vomit, the waves are hitting him, the rubber raft smells of plasters, and he’s floating but he’s sinking. Sinking.

He swallows bloody water and lets go.

…

When he wakes, it’s as if he has been pulled from the drowning waters of a black, hole-like well of flashes—images so horrible John wishes he could cut them from his body with a knife, dissecting his brain and separating the good from the bad, the black from the white, the before from the after.

He’s dying, he thinks. 

The ground is warm, as if heat is radiating up from the very core of the earth, and he hurts. _God_ , he hurts. His mouth is very clearly torn and his arms and legs are bleeding upon the sand, forming pink clumps that will stick to his skin until he cleanses himself in the surf. His sides _ache_ , so much so that he can barely tumble over, and when he opens his eyes all he sees is a watercolour painting—washed out colours seen through two slits cutting through swollen lids the size of golfballs.

He can hardly breathe.

John shoves up enough to clear his throat, coughing and sputtering foamy, bloody saliva and salt water onto the dry, powdery sand. He palms his eyes and trembles, shakes, elbows digging into the sand, head pounding, stomach rolling and skin raw. He’s sunburnt, and the exposed back of his neck stings as if on fire. It is severely blistered, inch-long pockets of serum nothing but a rosy cluster from his hairline to the collar of his top.

How long has he been here? 

It feels as if it has only been moments—a blink between the horror and the wake—but it can't have been. John twists onto his side, groaning with the pain of cracked ribs, and peers off into the distance.

Nothing. He sees nothing. Nothing but kilometres and kilometres of ocean.

He’s halfway up the beach, body lodged in a dip in the sand, and his clothes are bone dry save for the crotch of his trousers, which is slightly damp with urine expelled hours ago.

John sniffs loudly, sinuses filled with fluid, and moving his palms to the sand, tries to push himself into a standing position.

It’s slow going, but he makes it somehow, biting his shredded bottom lip through the pain before wincing at the sight of his battered body. His trousers are ripped and streaked with blood that still oozes in little spurts from an eight-centimetre gash in his left leg. He is barefoot and raw and his top is the only thing on him slightly intact.

Small cuts and large bruises mar the flesh of his arms, and his chest and stomach bear splotches and bumps from broken ribs and the force of impact.

John can’t even look around. He can hardly breathe. He backs up the beach and collapses in the first bit of shade he finds, knees buckling and elbows hitting the cool sand, blood dripping from his mouth and eyes shutting and heart beating too heartily, too quickly.

He doesn’t wake for a long time.

…

In his dreams he’s in the Cessna, leant against the tiny window and watching the kilometres and kilometres of water. Da's speaking to the pilot, examining a map that has been folded and unfolded time after time and uttering coordinates that make no sense to John. 

John wants to tell them to stop the plane, to land, to call for help, but his mouth doesn’t work and he’s frozen in place and all he can do is watch death creep into view and know he’s about to fall.

…

The crashing of waves is the first thing he sees when his eyes finally open. It is dusk and the tide is rolling in, and John knows he is half-dead. His mouth is so dry that even the blood has turned to crust, and his head pounds from dehydration. He needs water.

Three days without water can kill you, and John has no idea how long he has been there. He could have just now woken after a few hours of sleep or after over twenty-four. He has no concept of time, no grasp on reality, and he’s bleary and disoriented and dry and weak and... His stomach hurts and bladder burns and he can hardly swallow.

Water.

John climbs to his feet and gasps at the pain and at the blood in the sand. His leg has been seeping whilst he slept and he knows he must find a way to doctor himself, but for now he is nearly blind with dehydration and swelling and he cannot think of injury. His skin hurts and his brain hurts and he wants to fall into a pool and drink until he drowns.

His feet throb as he steps on sticks and debris, body aches as he moves, but John pushes on, staggering into the forest behind him and walking aimlessly. He cannot process his surroundings; he cannot force himself to so much as watch where he’s going. He grabs for trees to keep him upright and takes step after step and tries to focus on his laboured breathing and too-fast heartbeat and the rhythm of his movement.

Several metres in, John finds a small pool of muddy rainwater near the base of a tree. He drops to his knees and uses his raw, pink hands to scoop mouthful after mouthful of water, drinking until his stomach is bloated. The water tastes of iron and dirt but it feels _wonderful_ sliding down his throat. He scoops up more and splashes it over his face, cooling his fried, swollen skin.

He wants to cry, suddenly, but he doesn’t think he's able. His sinuses feel painfully impacted and his eyes are so dry he knows he couldn’t produce a tear if he had to. Still, there is something inside him that _burns_ , that _aches_ , and as he sits in a pool of muddy water in the middle of a forest in the middle of an island in the middle of the ocean, he begins to sob—loud, dry sobs that hurt his throat and cause his temples to pound. 

…

John hobbles back out to the beach what feels like hours later. His eyes are even more swollen and his throat is ablaze, but it is growing dark and he knows he cannot remain in the woods.

He lowers himself into the sand by a piece of driftwood and curls into a ball. His ribs ache and the gash in his leg pulls and splits as he bends his knee, sending fresh blood onto his trousers.

It is not late—likely not yet nine—but John is so weak he doesn’t think he can keep his eyes open. He knows he should attempt to bandage his leg, but before he can think to even pull up the fabric of his trousers, he’s asleep.

…  
…

John remembers several times in his life when he desired nothing more than to be on a desert island. He recalls lying in his bedroom as an angry young child, wiping his tears away with his fists, hating his sister, hating momentarily his mum, his da, and wishing for his own island, his own land where he’s the boss and the adult and where no one can tell him what to do. 

He isn't so sure, now; he isn't so sure about it at all now that he’s lying in the sand, aching and bleeding, staring up at palm fronds and blue sky and not knowing what day it is, what time it is, or if he’s even going to survive.

Wincing, John shoves himself into a seated position, and for the first time since waking in sand however many days or hours or lifetimes ago, peers about with weak, aching eyes.

The island is small, stretching no more than a kilometre wide, and it appears exactly as every one John’s ever seen or read about: a white, sandy beach disappearing into an ocean so clear and so blue it seems fit for drinking; a thick forest filled with palm and coconut trees with a floor of green leaves, branches, and sand. 

It would be beautiful if John weren’t so thirsty and so frightened. 

He trembles as he stands, dizzy, joints sore and skin stinging. The blisters on the back of his neck have burst, the fluid escaping and drying beneath the collar of his shirt, gluing the fabric to his fried, pink skin. His leg is aching to the point of near-numbness, and he can feel the blood trickle from the wound and wind its way in red, river-like streams to his ankle.

Still, driven by thirst and heat and madness, John ignores himself for long enough to hobble back to his watering hole in the forest. He collapses on the ground, forehead dry while it should be sweating, and drinks until he retches. 

He drinks more.

The pool is ten centimetres deep, brown with sand and leaves, but the water is potable, and John is so thirsty it wouldn’t matter if it wasn't. 

Satisfied for the moment, John pushes up into a standing position and rubs his face with his palms. He hears the scritch-scratch of birds in trees and skittering lizards. The gentle breeze carries a voice like a whisper through the forest. But that’s all. There’s nothing else.

John swallows and moves on.

He must find something with which to carry water, as traipsing back and forth will be impossible. For now, though, his leg is top priority.

Delirious, brain registering colours that shouldn’t be, the sky fading green and yellow and grey, ground dipping and disappearing beneath John’s feet, he leaves the forest and makes his way back to the beach. After scuffing through the sand, he drops down at the water’s edge and outstretches his legs. 

_God_ , his leg. His trousers are ripped at the knees and shredded below, and the wound marring his flesh is deep, so deep John swears he can see bone.

Groaning with pain, John pushes up the fabric, which is partially glued to his ripped skin with dried blood, and wheezes as he watches the blood trickle. There is a piece of…something in there—something sharp and black lodged _inside_ him, inside the crevice of the gash. He’s got to get it out. He knows he must get it out. 

John grasps the black thing with his thumb and forefinger and screams as he pulls it out, feeling a horrible, suctiony, slurping, wet sting. Blood pours down his leg and into the water, and he’s screaming, screaming, but it’s out and in his hand and it’s sharp and metallic and, Christ, it’s a shard of razor-sharp metal, a shard of the _plane_. 

He squeezes it in his palm and leans over, vomiting water and coughing, sputtering.

…

His trousers rip easily, so it’s no great feat for John to create a makeshift bandage with what’s left of the material below his knees. He tears off strips with his teeth and ties them round his cut—four, five strips, one on top of the other…ties them tightly, as tightly as he can manage, and knots them with sore, bloody fingers.

He’s exhausted. He’s in pain. His head throbs with the need to cry and sleep and drink water until he’s practically swimming in it.

Lying back, he wants to die.

The sun’s sinking, bringing with it a sky so pink and so beautiful John almost wishes he could enjoy it. Gentle waves wash over him, over his legs and hips. He watches the sky with his stomach in knots, wondering what is happening on the other side of it.

Mummy is crying, he knows. She's grasping Harry and crying over the deaths of her husband and child. They’ve sent a search party, probably—ships and aircraft—to look for them, but they’ve found nothing. Harry, ever the cynic, has no hope for their recovery. She blames herself, the one it should have been, who should have died. She sips pulls of Da's scotch whilst listening to her music, tolerating Mummy but otherwise distant. Tomorrow, if it hasn’t already happened, John will be in the headlines of at least one newspaper: _**Father and Son Disappear in the Atlantic**_. 

John covers his face with his hands and sobs. 

He knows he is meant to be strong. He is meant to be a survivor. He doesn’t know if he can.

Wiping away tears that have finally begun to escape, John somehow manages to stand, despite the excruciating pain in his leg. He hobbles down the beach, peering out across the ocean, looking for something, anything, a propeller, a piece of steel poking up from the water, a body, a ship, a shred of hope. There’s nothing. Just waves and a pink sky. The ocean goes on forever, as if infinite.

…

Walking back up the beach, John collapses in the sand by a large piece of driftwood. He should build a fire, he knows. He knows he should try his hardest, put on his bravest face and set on getting himself off the island. Time is wasting. Minutes are slipping past like seconds and the window of opportunity is closing, if it hasn’t already. He must build a fire. If there’s anyone still looking for him, they’ll see the smoke, won’t they? A ball of flames on a desert island.

John drags himself towards the forest and pulls branches and leaves and anything he can find to the driftwood. He piles it all together—a magnificent pile—and then takes two dry sticks in his raw, cracked hands. His adventure stories have aided him not at all, the practicality of fire-building nearly entirely lost to him in favour of dread pirates and buried treasure. His hands _ache_ as he scrapes the end of one stick against the side of the other, up and down until the bark begins to rub away, leaving smooth, greenish white that John knows will spark nothing at all.

After five minutes, he’s tired.

After ten, he begins to accept his fate.

…  
…

He isn't hungry, but he spies a few bananas on his last trip from the watering hole before darkness eats him alive. There’s a coconut, too, a few of them, scattered along the bases of trees that have let them go. John scoops them up in his shirt and carries them back to his bloody spot on the beach. The sun’s slowly disappearing behind the horizon, but it is still light enough to work.

He cracks open a coconut by sawing through the shell with the shard of metal from his leg and uses his fingers to pry it open. He’d always imagined the water inside to be sweet, not bland and metallic—the meat is as a jelly, and it tastes terrible. John scoops it out with his hands and tosses it onto the sand, then uses the metal shard to scrape the two halves of the shell clean. He can carry water in these.

John wipes his sticky palms on his thighs. Tomorrow he’ll attempt fire-building again. Now, he's too weak. He lies back on the sand and closes his eyes. And he’ll go about building shelter and gathering water and food. Tomorrow.

…

John drifts for a while, moving in and out of consciousness. His leg aches in this position, so he shifts onto his side. For a moment, he allows his eyes to slowly open, and he stares off into the near-darkness, into the dim, pink dusk.

He almost swears he hallucinates a dog several metres away. It’s a lean Irish Setter, sniffing about on the beach. 

In a blink, though, it’s gone. 

John closes his eyes, slipping ever so slowly into blackness, the earth opening up her mouth and swallowing him whole.

He doesn’t hear the careful shuffling in the woods behind him.

He doesn’t hear the quiet whispers of a boy to his dog.

And he doesn’t hear the stretch of a cord, the slow _iiiiiiich_ of an arrow being drawn.


	2. . . . __ __ __ . . .  (SOS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy! I know things are rough for poor John, but things will look up very soon!

The night floats by as drifting clouds. It is a pattern of sleep and wake, of dry mouth and sore joints. When John finally rises, hands digging into the warm sand, pushing down until he’s up on his knees, he’s already exhausted, weary simply from the trials of sleeping.

He doesn’t remember much of the night before; he remembers nothing but dim flashes of the day, even, and when he stands, wincing at the still-ache in his leg, he can’t help but feel as if time has escaped him. Time is slippery silk sliding through the gaps in John's fingers. He looks towards the sky and sees it is bright blue and clear, and it occurs to him, not for the first time, that it could be October, November now, and he’d never know. Who knows what all he may have forgot?

The only thing tethering him to some semblance of earth, of consistency and stability, is his leg. It is still bleeding, a steady trickle, and his bandage needs changing, the cut needs to be cleaned. Yes, if there’s anything keeping him here, assuring him of the present, it’s that.

John slowly stands, unsteady on his feet, and limps to the ocean. He winces as he removes the bandage—edges of the cut stuck to the fabric with dry blood and ripping away as it’s removed—and has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming as he bathes the wound in salt water. 

It is better, maybe. A little. The blood doesn’t run as profusely. John uses the pads of his fingers to massage the torn skin, rubbing away streaks of brown blood, and then turns to the bandage. He rinses it in the water and reties it, hoping the salt will do his cut some good.

The sound of the crashing waves makes him ache with thirst. John stands and hobbles his way back to where he’d slept in order to retrieve his coconut halves. He feels as if he could lie in the sand all day, staring up at the sky and resting his tired body, but he knows if he plans to survive this mess, something has to be done. He must push through the pain, must find means of survival. Food. Water. He needs a shelter.

…

As he’s bent over, scooping up and dusting off the coconut halves—his only method of carrying water—John hears it. A _ch-ch-ch_ of scuffling leaves. A very quiet, “ _Shhh_.”

Adrenaline shoots through his veins, and his heart pounds—thump-thump. What was that? What _was_ that? He clutches the coconut halves in his hands and slowly straightens. 

It’s then that he sees the paw prints—several of them, a path from the forest to his bloody, sandy little bed and back. Paw prints. Dog prints. He remembers the lean Irish Setter on the beach the night before like a memory so distant only the edge remains in his conscious mind. A dog?

John turns to the forest, squinting to see something, anything. A dog means humans, right?

“Hello?” he whispers—an unintentional whisper, throat so dry nothing but dust can swoop past his vocal cords. “Is there anyone…?”

A large, flowering plant moves ever so slightly as if disturbed by a heavy exhale, and suddenly John is staring into a pair of shockingly blue eyes—the eyes of a predator. 

He jumps, heart leaping into his throat, and drops the coconut halves. “Hello?”

The person takes off in a dash, _ch-ch-ch-ch-ch_ , running through the forest at full speed as if they are a frightened animal, a deer sneaked upon in the middle of the night.

“Hey!” John yells, throat aching from exertion. “Wait!” He hobbles after the person, tearing through the opening in the forest and screaming for them to stop, please, _stop_.

They don’t stop. John pants after only a few quick, powerful bounds, and grabs hold of a skinny tree trunk for support. He shoves his way through the forest, hand to tree to tree to tree, bare feet fumbling across the forest floor, cut up by sharp sticks, rocks, and seashells. He’s disoriented again, lost on the island and in his head, and he can’t see straight. His leg aches to an unbelievable degree, blood once more trickling out the gash from such sudden, strenuous movement. 

“Is there anybody there?” he screams, only to be met with the echo of his own voice.

…

John slumps down on the ground, exhausted. Tears fight to escape his still-swollen eyes, but he won’t let them, wiping away each and every one with his knuckles before they have a chance to drip. He feels hopeless suddenly. Frightened. He’s delirious from dehydration, and his brain just won't _work_. His scrambled head has disabled him, incapacitated him, disarmed him and made him suddenly more vulnerable than he has ever been. He is seeing things he shouldn’t be seeing—faces in tree trunks and in the patterns of leaves on the ground. 

What if he has simply chased a ghost into the woods? A figment of his imagination. What if his leg is rotting with infection, and he is so ill he’s hallucinating? John rubs his palms over his face and groans.

He can’t do this, cannot allow himself to grovel. He must get up.

Grabbing hold of the trunk of the palm tree behind him, John slowly inches his way into a standing position. He can hardly hold his left foot flush to the ground, as any pressure whatsoever sends shooting pains through his wound. He has to limp. Limp to water.

All thoughts of the mysterious person forgotten—or rather suppressed—John begins the journey towards his watering hole. He believes it is to the right, then straight on, but he isn't sure; he can’t be sure. Everything looks the same, especially to weary eyes and especially in the shadow of delirium. 

Tree to tree to tree. That’s how he continues to work it. Left hand to tree, drag, rest. Right hand to tree, drag, rest. 

When he finds it, he doesn’t immediately see it. And when he finds it, it isn't what he’s looking for, yet it’s exactly what he wants. Instead of stumbling upon his puddle of dirty water, he stumbles upon a rock, then another rock, then another and another, and it isn't until he’s panting, lowering himself to the ground near his right hand tree that he realises what it is.

It’s a pool framed in nice, smooth paving stones. It’s a pool of freshwater the size of one you’d swim in. Manmade. John presses his forehead to his knees and lets out a deep breath.

…

The water tastes of heaven. It is cool and crisp, and though nothing but an accumulation of God knows how many years of rain, it’s better than anything John can ever remember. He drinks until his stomach hurts and then drinks some more.

There is a partial bunch of bananas nearby, and John grabs for it. He cracks the stem of one of them and peels it only halfway before taking a massive bite he can hardly swallow. 

After finishing the banana and drinking more water, John lies back on the forest floor and closes his eyes. Rests for a moment. His leg stings, and he knows he should probably check his bandage—possibly change it out—but he’s too exhausted. His stomach feels over-stretched, even from just water and one meagre banana, and all he wants to do is sleep.

…  
…

On his way back to the beach, as his hands are being cut from clutching prickly tree trunks, John spies a bush filled with blue-black berries. Thinking of nothing but self-preservation, he begins to fill the pockets of his trousers. Though his knowledge of survival strategies is slim, he knows enough to understand that red berries are the ones you need to fear—that more often than not, purple, blue, or black ones are consumable.

John really doesn't care all that much, anyhow.

And it’s there, as he’s picking berries, his left leg lifted off the ground, shoulder against a tree trunk for support, sweat flowing profusely down his face, that it happens.

 _Thwack_.

An arrow cuts loudly through the tree trunk, not three inches from his body.

Startled, John drops the berries in his hands. Every hair on his body stands on end, and his heart beats with birdwings.

He shoves back from the tree, shocked, and in a matter of moments there’s another arrow, this one skimming his foot and taking with it a trail of skin.

He hears the _skiiiitch_ , _skiiiitch_ of shuffling feet in leaves, as well as the low rumble of a growl. He quickly scans his surroundings, breathing loudly in a frenzied panic, and sees nothing. No one.

John groans, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes from pain, and hobbles off as fast as he can. He must get out of there. His leg hurts more than ever, and now with his right foot injured and bleeding, he’s severely debilitated. 

Another arrow shoots past him, eventually lodging in a tree a metre away. John doubles over and uses his hands to push off the ground, almost running on all fours to keep his balance, to gain momentum, to keep from falling flat on his stomach and ending up with an arrow piercing his skull.

"No, no, no," he mumbles, bloody saliva trickling out his mouth. His tongue has been bitten, though he knows not when. All he can think of is the pain all over his body, the stretch of his leg muscles, the ache of his lungs as he pants heavily, and the _thud, thud, thud_ behind him. 

He’s being chased, and he knows this, but he cannot run any faster. The dog barks furiously, right on John's tail, and another arrow whirs past at lightning speed, barely missing his cheek.

He runs for what feels like an age, and he has no idea where he’s going. He has no sense of direction and can barely see through all the pain and the tears, frightened tears, pouring from his eyes. 

John tears through the forest, grabbing on to trees to keep him afoot and fighting the urge to turn, to peer at the person chasing him, at the dog, the arrow, his fate. His lungs are on fire, burning with the pain of the inhale, exhale, the stretch of being used so much for the first time since the accident, of being used for anything other than to keep his weary body alive.

He suddenly spies the beach in the distance, and for some reason that makes him push harder. He groans with pain and launches himself forward, feeling the snarling dog’s fur at his heels, knowing it’s a split second from taking him down.

John takes a deep breath, swallows back his tears, and with one more step, he… 

He falls.

…

He’s moaning so loudly, louder than ever. He’s in so much pain, blood pouring from the gash in his leg, pouring from his foot, puddling in his mouth. He breathes in the white sand beneath him, chokes on it, and pleads. _Pleads_.

“You can't!” he cries, shaking. “Please. Please. I don’t… I’m lost. I’m lost. _Please_.”

A bare foot presses against his lower back, holding him down, and John knows an arrow is aimed at the back of his head. _Iiiiitch_.

“Please,” he whispers, bottom lip quivering and eyes squeezed shut. “I’m lost.” He feels the dog sniffing away at the blood on his clothes, feels it lick him quickly, then sniff some more. The heavy foot on his back remains.

Something sharp presses against the back of his neck, then retreats, then presses again. It’s the arrow, John knows. The predator is aiming up his shot.

“Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.” His bladder releases involuntarily, and the dog moves from his feet to the back of his trousers, sniffing around for traces of urine.

“Please,” John whispers again. His breath catches in a sob. “I’m all alone.”

The foot leaves his lower back, and in that moment, John knows he is going to die. He can feel it in the air, can hear it in the wind. Can taste it.

He sniffs quietly, deciding to face it like a man, not a boy. Not a bloody child. 

Using all the strength he can muster, John rolls onto his back to look the predator in the eye—to watch as death overtakes him.

What he finds, instead, is nothing. No one.

Shaking, John wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sits up.

All he sees is an Irish Setter in the distance, obediently following his master.

…  
…

Once he calms enough to move, John scrambles to his feet and hobbles slowly towards the beach. It’s a different beach, he realizes. Not his own.

The sun is high in the sky and it is nearing noon. John is shaken and terrified, his stomach aching so badly with nerves he thinks he may vomit; in fact, once he reaches the ocean he does just that, loudly and more than once, expelling every bit of water and fruit he’d ingested that morning.

“ _God_ ," he groans, wiping his mouth on the front of his bloody shirt. He tries to compose himself, tries to control his nerves, but he can’t. All he can think of as he rinses his bleeding foot and leg in the ocean is the man. The predator. 

He’d spared him for some reason, had stopped himself from taking John’s life. What does it mean?

John trudges through the surf, slowly wading in to his knees and looking out across the blue. He sees nothing at all. No shred of hope.

…

It takes him half an hour to get back to his beach by walking clockwise around the island. Once he’s there, he collapses in the sand and cries very quietly, burying his face in his arms and shaking.

He’s terribly thirsty, but he certainly isn't entering the forest again any time soon. Instead, he cleans up his face, scrambles to his feet, and grabs a large stick from his aborted fire. There, in mid-afternoon, he scrawls a large **SOS** across the beach, though he knows it’s likely futile.

…  
…

For dinner, John finishes the rest of the bananas he found the day before and cracks open the last of the coconuts for its water.

It occurs to him that he isn't sure if he wants to live. It’s an offhanded thought, not the conclusion to a long line of thinking. All he knows is that if life is going to be like this, if what it means to survive is to suffer, he isn't sure he wants it.

If he _is_ going to survive, there’s much to do. He must build shelter, make a fire, learn to fish, and efficiently gather water. He must face the predator. 

John doesn’t want to do that right now. Right now he wants to bury himself in the sand and close his eyes. He doesn’t know if waking will be worth it.

What if the predator were only freeing him this once? What if next time John finds himself pinned to a tree by an arrow through the forehead? 

…

As night begins to fall, John makes his way to the ocean and changes the bandage on his leg. It’s cooler tonight, breezy, and John allows himself to lean backwards, resting at the edge of the surf with the waves slowly rolling towards him.

He thinks of the dog, funnily enough. He was a nice, silky setter. A setter.

Obviously, he wasn’t wild, so where did he come from? Was the predator also the product of an accident? A shipwreck? Plane crash? What if he was the same as John, another lost, frightened soul all alone?

John stares up at the darkening sky.

…

When he returns to his spot at the top of the beach, he notices the sand has been disturbed. There’s a paw print here and there. A tiny hole that has been recently dug.

John peers round him but sees nothing. “Is that you?” he asks quietly, not particularly wanting an answer.

He lies down and tries to make himself comfortable, but no matter how tired he is, no matter how much he wants to sleep, he can’t. All he can feel are the pinpricks on his skin from watching eyes. All he can hear is the rhythmic in-out of breath in the distance—the breath of a sniffing dog or a nervous predator crouched somewhere nearby.

He’s watching, John thinks, shifting uncomfortably in the sand. Watching and waiting to kill, maybe.

What if he is?

John wishes he’d do it already.


	3. Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!

Over the course of two weeks, John survives only because he cannot seem to die.

Such an easy thing it must be to lose hope, to give up when all odds are stacked against you and you’re in constant pain, frying on a beach in the middle of nowhere with a predator on the loose. It must be simple to seek death as your fate, as death is only the inevitable and that which is inevitable will happen inevitably.

John does the bare minimum those two weeks, spending his days sleeping and thinking, drinking only when necessary and eating what little he finds at the edge of the forest. He's got thin, so thin, and he knows he must be wasting away, only…

He’s better. His leg no longer weeps blood, finally beginning to scab over and heal, and his foot wound never was that deep; his ribs aren’t as sore, bruises fading to yellow, and his sunburnt skin has peeled off into a tan.

No, John cannot die. His body, betraying him when the hope was there, grows ever stronger in its absence, as if spiteful. John is forced to hold on, though he so badly wants to let go.

He relents on what he believes to be his twenty-second day on the island and finally builds shelter. It’s a makeshift lean-to at the edge of the woods—a shack of sticks and palm fronds—and it takes the better part of the day to construct. John knows nothing of building, but he does the best he can. When he’s finished, he fills the floor inside with soft leaves on which to sleep and sets off for his next project.

If he has shelter, he may as well seek survival.

By mid-week, John has a set of canteens he’s created by whittling holes in the top of young coconuts, draining the water and scraping out the jellied meat inside. He has a stock of bananas, collected from down the beach, and two coconut shells full of blue-black berries that are sickeningly sweet to John's changing palate. He’s discovered the difference between coconut milk and water, much preferring the milk of the mature fruit, and he’s learned to tell approximate time of day by the steady roll of the tide.

He still cannot build a fire, each attempt leaving his palms blistered if not bleeding, and he is yet to see so much as the white streak of a plane miles above him. But he has shade, now, and he’s no longer spending his nights buried in sand.

…

For the most part, John has stayed away from the forest—away from the predator. He gathers his food and water as close to the beach as he can, venturing no further than the tiny water pool he initially discovered, which is quickly becoming too muddy from which to drink due to lack of rainfall.

Still, that hasn’t stopped the predator from coming to him. Every night, nearly, John feels the eyes. He hears the lean Irish Setter traipsing about, sniffing just outside his camp, and has woke on numerous occasions to paw prints circling his shelter.

He thought he heard a whisper once—a name, it seemed—but it was late and dark, and John, though growing progressively used to the shuffling, the ch-ch-ch in the leaves and sand, was still, at his core, fearful. He couldn’t be sure of what he heard.

As far as John can tell, the predator and the dog are his only neighbours on the island. Surely, by now, any others would have made themselves known, he reckons. So what does this mean? John would be lying if he said he doesn’t think about the breathing body in the middle of the night, as the predator’s clearly lurking at the edge of the woods, watching. Waiting. He thinks of crawling from his tiny shelter and asking for peace. Asking a question. Seeing the man’s face. Finding out if he’s really the monster John imagines.

…  
…

At the end of his first week with shelter, John decides to call it Monday. He uses the steel shard to carve a small tally on a tree in hopes of keeping track of time. It’s Monday, the first of October, he decides, looking over his work with something akin to a smile. A _smile_. It’s strange how a move so small, a decision so insignificant, can bring John some skewed inkling of happiness.

It’s on this day that John decides to go water-gathering and fruit-picking.

He usually takes what he can as he sees and needs it, making no formal occasion of foraging. But this time is different. _Today_ feels different. John removes his tattered top to use as a bindle, carries around his neck his coconut canteens strung together with vine, and slips into the woods gently, inching in like a careful cat after its prey.

The sharp sticks and occasional rock and shell in the sandy floor no longer hurt John's feet; they’ve either grown tough or John can no longer feel such minor pain. He walks slowly through the forest, nervous yet brave, and watches closely for any disturbance.

The forest looks much different with a head that hasn’t been made foggy by dehydration. It’s brighter, louder, a million tiny skitters and skritches of a million tiny bugs and lizards. John clutches his bindle and moves forward.

He slowly walks for close to half a kilometre, past his tiny, dirty water pool and further into the woods than he’s ever been before, gathering along the way the berries he’s somehow taken a liking to and finding a few mangos he’s yet to try.

John finds another large pool of water—another pool surrounded by manmade paving stones and filled with rainwater—and decides to fill his canteens here. As he’s leant over, skimming the surface with a hollow coconut shell, watching bubbles emerge at the surface as he dips the make-shift canteen, he hears a disturbance.

_Ch-ch-ch._

John’s heart leaps into his throat.

Slowly, ever so slowly, John straightens his back and turns.

It’s the Irish Setter.

He’s come to drink water, his head bent low near the surface of the pool and his eyes trained on John, who has ceased to move.

The dog whines a little, quietly, and licks his mouth. John breathes. He watches as the dog drinks his fill of water, and then, before he has a chance to change his mind, reaches out a hand and places it on his head.

He pets him gently, shaking with the thought that he could snap at any moment. His fur is soft and well-groomed, and as John pats his head, the dog stills, blinking his eyes in time with John's strokes.

John pulls away quickly, afraid of overstaying his welcome, but the dog doesn’t seem to mind. He licks away the stray droplets of water around his mouth and then leans in to lick John’s arm.

John stands, unsure of what to do next. Does the presence of the dog mean his owner is nearby? He shudders a little, suddenly cold in his skin.

The dog begins the slow walk back from whence he came, taking his time, sniffing at bases of trees and scattered leaves. He’s following a worn, skinny trail—one he clearly walks often—and John wonders if this water pool is his special drinking place. He ties up his bindle and straps the canteens back around his neck. If the dog walks the trail often, does that mean he lives at the end of it? Does that mean the predator does, too?

Something chills in John's stomach—clenches, too. He should go back, he knows—back to his camp, back to his little shack to restock the fruit and water supply with the contents of his bindle. He should go back because it’s dangerous, and he’s frightened, and the last time he got too close he ended up on the ground with a bare foot pressing against his lower back and an arrow aimed at the back of his head.

But the predator watches him every night. He’s been watching him for weeks, now, and hasn’t killed him. And if only for a split second, if only for the time it takes for John to decide what to do next, he can’t help but think, “Two can play that game.” He can’t help but imagine himself hiding amongst the trees, spying on the predator as the predator has been doing with him.

He clutches his top tightly, adjusts the coconut shells so they won’t clank together, and sets off after the dog.

…  
…

John walks approximately a hundred metres, traipsing along at a snail’s pace towards the end of the winding trail. The trees are thicker here, tropical life everywhere—from birds to lizards to rows and rows of fruit. There’s _so much_ fruit, almost strategically placed, as if planted… John furrows his brow and snatches a wild orange. He spies the end of the trail ahead, curling round behind a thick cluster of vines.

He’s nervous as he approaches the opening in plant growth, afraid of what he’ll find. He squeezes the orange in his palm, pulp squishing, before sliding it into his bindle.

The dog is gone now, gone back to his home, and it’s only John and the end of the trail. He slowly steps round the bend, brushing past thick green plants he knows must hide snakes in the summer months, and pushes through the curtain.

He’s surprised at what he sees.

It’s a house of sorts—clearly manmade using materials found in civilisation—structured round a tall tree. John feels as if he’s entering the lair of Tarzan of the Apes as he steps into the predator’s camp.

It’s a tiny, one-room structure at the base of a tree with a ladder leading up to the second room, stacked atop the first. The roof is thatched, but durably so, and the walls have been built from standard boards and nails. There are two doorways, both covered by animal skin, and one large, open window.

Inside the window, John sees him. The predator.

He isn't sure what he was expecting—a monster of some sort, maybe, or an older man with drooping skin and grey hair. It wasn’t what he sees.

John sees a boy—a thin, wildly curly-haired teenager around his age, wearing trousers cut into shorts. He’s stretched out asleep on a makeshift bed, turned on his stomach with his head resting on his arm.

John's stomach settles; there’s a shift. He stares at the sleeping boy with wide-eyes. Where did he _come from_?

Looking round camp, John's perplexed. It’s as if someone has been living here for years and years—as if someone migrated with all his material possessions to a desert island in the middle of the ocean.

There are wooden buckets—old, shops-bought buckets—strewn round the camp holding water, various tools, flint, bows, arrows, knives, and wooden cooking supplies. There’s a stack of water-damaged books shoved against a wooden chair, and a pair of old and worn trainers rests at the entrance to the tree house. Mixed in with these are items clearly fashioned by someone on an island: bowls, plates, and tableware sloppily whittled, chairs made by tying together pieces of wood with vines, and most impressively—what makes John’s mouth water, his stomach ache—a wooden spit and an entire boar hovering over a popping fire.

John feels ill, suddenly—a disgusting, homesick dread seeping into his veins. Cooking meat smells of civilisation, of life.

He peers round and spies a machete propped against the spit. He could steal it. He could steal it and kill the predator. He could take over this place, this little piece of civilisation in the middle of nowhere.

John looks up at the boy. He’s shifting in his sleep just like any other resting human.

…  
…

John makes it back to his camp as it’s nearing dawn. After unloading the fruit and canteens inside the shack, he scrambles over to the aborted fire and tries again to light it, always again. He tries every night as the sun sets.

He gets a spark, some smoke, but that’s all. That’s as far as he’s progressed in three weeks. Pathetic. He wipes his sweaty forehead and retreats back to the shack.

…

John's preparing to sleep later on, washing his face in the ocean, soaking his scabbing wound, having a wee, when he senses a presence behind him—close behind him. He swallows.

It’s the dog, again—the lean Irish Setter with a shining, red-brown coat.

“Hello, boy,” John says quietly, taking a step towards him.

The dog walks closer and bows down, asking to be petted. John smiles and crouches down, petting his head and nose. He wonders if the predator—no, the boy—is nearby, watching.

The dog follows him back to the lean-to and lies down beside John, who stretches out in his pile of leaves to sleep. The setter's belly rises and falls in time with his breaths.

…

He’s dreaming of home. It’s Christmas morning, and John is sprinting down the hallway with Harry at his heels, rushing towards the kitchen, towards breakfast. There is always eggs and toast before gifts from Father Christmas—eggs and toast and the milky tea he'd slurp whilst teasing his infuriating older sister.

He’s rounding the corner, sliding in his stockinged feet and spying his mother, who’s beaming with festive cheer and love for her children, her arms already outstretched for a hug John will attempt to dodge.

A happy feeling is bubbling up inside him, and he cannot help but grin. He doesn’t want to—he’s too old and too wise for it—but he does, anyway, smiling as he bites his bottom lip.

…

“Redbeard.”

John jerks awake at the voice. Redbeard? He’s bleary and disoriented, that too-soon feeling of waking before you’re ready. The dog stirs beside him.

" _Redbeard_."

It’s a loud, frustrated whisper, on the verge of being voiced.

John rubs his eyes and watches as the dog stands and leaves the shelter, following the sound of the voice. He tries not to breathe too loudly for fear the boy has a weapon.

“Naughty boy!” he hears him whisper. “Bad dog.”

Footsteps retreat.

John exhales.

…  
…

The next morning, John finds the boy’s footprints, footprints nearly the same size as John’s, in the sand beside his shelter. He bites his lip for a second, considering the situation, and then grabs his canteens to go fetch more water.

He has a breakfast of wild orange and berries, but it’s hardly satisfying. He’s simply so very, very hungry. Even though he eats several times a day and has an unlimited supply of fruit on the island, John can tell his body’s severely lacking certain needed vitamins and minerals. He can tell it’s lacking protein. He’s never full, stomach not growling yet poised and ready to pounce, and he’s constantly shaky. Seeing that boar the day before gave John cravings he hasn’t had since he’s been here.

After breakfast, he stands, stretches, and goes to the ocean to wash himself. He knows he must smell foul. Soap is certainly a luxury he misses—soap and shampoo. He runs his hands over his body, trying to scrub away with salt water what would best come off with a bar of Imperial Leather. Yes, he’d love a nice, hot, soapy bath.

…

Most of the day is spent lying around, catching up on rest. While he isn't nearly as tired as he was weeks before, he still fatigues quite easily and requires naps on a regular basis.

Today, John wakes from a particularly satisfying nap, rubbing his eyes and stretching, when he bumps with his elbow a warm, furry body.

Redbeard. John groans. He twists onto his stomach and cautiously reaches out to pet him, unable to resist. It feels nice to touch another life form—something John misses from civilisation. It helps him feel real.

Redbeard outstretches his tongue and happily licks John’s palm. John wonders about his origins as he strokes his soft fur. He must have been born off the island; for that matter, the _boy_ must have been born off the island. Right? But where did his shelter come from? What about the manmade water pools strewn across the island? John shifts onto his side to think, intending to turn facing the ocean.

Instead, he finds himself staring into the point of an arrow.

The boy is there, shirtless and breathing hard, aiming his weapon at John’s forehead. His face is unreadable—straight and stony—but his light blue eyes flash with anger.

“Dog is mine,” he says in unpractised, though accent-perfect English. “Redbeard is mine.”

John panics, holding his hands out to his sides and staring straight at the arrow, at the dirty fingers with chewed fingernails holding taut the string of the bow.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “I wasn’t trying to steal him. He came to me.”

The boy stares at John for the longest time, fingers flexing the bow. He draws the arrow further back, bites his plush bottom lip, then lets out some slack before drawing it back again. His breath comes in sharp puffs—animalistic, almost—and he blinks infrequently.

“Please,” John says, looking the boy in the eye. He finds himself breathing quickly, as well—loudly. He feels lightheaded and sick.

But finally, something shifts in the boy’s eyes. He lowers his weapon.

“Redbeard,” he says, turning to go.

The dog licks John’s cheek and stands to follow his master.

John pulls his knees to his chest and rests his forehead on them. He exhales loudly.

“Dog is mine,” he hears again—quietly, though, as if the boy is speaking to himself. John crawls to the opening of his shelter and peeks around, spying the boy crouched beside Redbeard at the edge of the forest, stroking him possessively and whispering, “Naughty boy.”

He looks up suddenly, catching John watching, and quickly averts his eyes. He stares at the sand and twists up his mouth as if nervous.

John takes a deep breath and climbs to his feet. He crosses his arms over his chest, feeling exposed, and says with a shaky voice, “My name is John.” He swallows. “I’m lost. There was an aircraft accident, and my father...”

The boy doesn’t seem to be listening. He stares at his dog stone-faced, eyebrows knitted together.

“You needn't harm me,” John continues. “I've no weapons; I can’t even build a fire.” He shrugs. “I was injured, and I’m very hungry.”

The boy stands abruptly, snapping his fingers for his dog, and says quietly, almost gently, “Redbeard is mine.” He snaps twice more and swans off into the forest.

John places his palms over his eyes and presses down. What a strange, strange boy his predator turned out to be. He collapses in the sand and stretches out on his back, watching the clouds drift slowly across the sky. For some unfathomable reason, John feels almost disappointed that the boy _isn't_ a monster, that he isn't a horrible old man.

He’s animalistic and brutal, but there's something so human in his eyes--something almost tender about the way his mouth twists when John speaks to him.

…  
…

That night, John swims in the ocean for the first time—truly swims. He strips down to his underpants and wades out until the water’s to his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he leans back and floats over the waves.

John wonders about home—about his family. Are they still looking for him? Do they still have hope? He reckons they’ve had a wake, already, and that James was solemn as he spoke of him and their friendship. It pains John to know that he’s hurting him. His mum has Harry, spoiling for a fight as she is, but James has not a soul. He told John one evening as they walked through the park that he was the only person in the world who understood him. John touched James's shoulder, licked his own bottom lip, and nodded. His cheeks flamed up, and he was awfully embarrassed at the display, turning his face away from the waning light.

He wants to cry when he thinks of him. He wants to cry when he thinks of his lovely mum and his horrible sister. 

His da. His da’s cold, dead hand—his cold, dead eyes. Is he in Heaven? 

John opens his eyes. The sky is growing dark.

He swims back to shore and shakes himself dry before walking back to his shelter. His stomach rumbles, and he sighs. Maybe he’ll eat the rest of his berries, maybe another unripe mango, or…

John pauses. At the opening of his shelter rests a bowl of food.

He bites back a smile. He can’t help it.


	4. We're Not So Different, You and I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Small disclaimer: There will be some inexplicit depictions of hunting and fishing in this fic.

With a belly full of piping hot, greasy pork—the food of the gods, as far as he's concerned—John sleeps well; he sleeps better than he’s ever imagined sleeping on this cursed island, sleeps warmly and dreamlessly in his little shack on the beach.

He sleeps well past noon the next day, only waking when the sun glaring in through the palm fronds grows so hot it begins to sting his face, turning his cheeks from well-sunned brown to pink. John opens his eyes and runs his hands over his face, squinting at the bright light.

He strips down to his dingy briefs and makes his way to the ocean, breathing in the heavy scent of salt and humidity and a kilometre of white sand. The water’s warm, so he wades in immediately, submerging to his shoulders and letting the waves crash over him, letting the waves wet his face and hair and sneak into his nose, mouth, and eyes. John blows out bubbles and thinks of life.

…

After salting his healing leg wound and finally removing the makeshift bandage with a sigh of relief, John saunters back up the beach in dripping underpants and collapses in the sand by his food and water stash. His canteens need to be filled, he discovers, only being able to slurp out a lukewarm few centimetres of water each, and his stock of bananas is running low. John munches the penultimate one for breakfast as he watches clouds drift across the sky.

When he’s finished, he pulls on his shorts and top, grabs his canteens, and pockets the piece of steel from his leg he’s been using as an all-purpose instrument. And he’s on his way into the woods, kicking his feet through the sand and leaving drag-marks, when he remembers something: the bowl. The small, wooden bowl. It rests at the opening of John’s shelter, empty save for a few pieces of gristle and a pool of grease. John slowly walks back and snatches it up, chewing on his bottom lip as he ponders.

Maybe he’ll take it back on the way, he thinks, pausing to peer off into the forest. Maybe he’ll return it to the boy with the hard face but tender eyes. 

He makes his way to his personal water pool, which is really verging on being too low and too muddy to drink from, and once there, fills his canteens and washes out the bowl. He runs his fingers over the jagged edges of the handcrafted bowl, wondering who on earth had made it; who had spent hours carving out a suitable bowl with a dull instrument? The boy?

John dries it with his shirt, for some reason wanting it to be presentable, and then, juggling it along with his canteens, takes off towards the camp of Redbeard and the mysterious boy.

…

When John arrives at the boy’s camp, he finds it devoid of both humans and animals. He sets the bowl down on a rickety wooden table along with a stack of other bowls and cups—some handcrafted, some clearly purchased—and takes a deep breath.

The camp looks different on a day of full-sunlight—dark, grey overtones now illuminated as the sun filters in from gaps in the overhanging boughs of trees. John sets down his canteens and places his hands on his hips. He cannot help but poke around some, casually searching for clues, for anything pointing him towards the origins of his predator and canine friend.

He spies some sort of crude contraption that seems to purify saltwater; a stack of faded and water-wrinkled composition notebooks; a flattened, empty package of cigarettes; a bowl of jam; and a large, wooden chest with a thick, rusted lock. Tossed across the chest is clothing lain out to dry—men’s formal trousers cut into shorts and an aubergine shirt. John runs his hand over the fabric.

This is not the attire of teenage boys, wearers of T-shirts and blue jeans. John chews on the end of his thumbnail.

He leaves the chest and walks over to the boy’s home—the two-storey structure built round a tree. The animal skin door to the bottom level is disturbed, pushed back as if inviting a passerby to peek inside. John checks it out.

The room is quite bare, with nothing but a fur rug and a squat, wooden endtable inside. There’s a book of poetry by Wordsworth on the table, along with a bowl of those berries John loves so much and a tiny, silver teaspoon like the one John’s mum uses to scoop sugar into her tea. He lets the door flap close and takes a step backwards, gazing up at the second level and at the ladder rungs leading up to it—the ladder rungs fastened to the tree trunk with rusty, yet civilised, nails.

He wants so badly to know how it all got here. The home. The clothing. The trainers hanging on a stray nail by their laces.

The boy. The dog.

John crosses his arms across his chest, feeling vulnerable and cold, suddenly, as if an invisible, unfelt wind has just blown through camp. He feels sick, almost—homesick—and staring at the running shoes and the nails and the stupid shirt makes him want to cry. He feels as if something horrible has happened, as if the gravity of his situation has crashed into him at full force, carrying with it knowledge of a fate that appears dim and dangerous and full of suffering and starvation and loneliness. 

He wants his da. His mum. Harry. James.

John breathes slowly through his teeth and fights back tears.

…

He turns to go after a few moments of trying to keep his composure. His cheeks are wet from his failed attempts and the palms of his hands feel cold and clammy; they’re hands of a boy before his clarinet recital, damp with nerves and cool with worry.

John crosses the camp to retrieve his canteens. As he's doubled over, retying the skinny vine stringing the coconut shells together, a stray tear slowly inching its way down the bridge of his nose, he feels a soft pressure against the back of his leg.

Fur.

Redbeard.

John holds his breath. Where there’s Redbeard there’s… He straightens and turns, eyes immediately making contact with the boy, who’s far too close, holding in one hand a net full of wriggling fish and in the other a raised machete.

John blanches; his stomach cramps.

The boy is soaking wet from the surf, shorts dripping and hanging low on his hips, hair dark and impossibly curly and pushed backwards. His feet are covered in drying sand up to the ankles and a fresh, red scratch mars the flesh of his stomach. His face is screwed up in an expression of pure, unadulterated fury.

“Sorry!” John practically screams, leaping a backwards. “I wasn’t…”

The boy moves in closer—close enough to touch. He outstretches the machete, eyes wild, bottom lip captured by his top teeth.

“I was just returning your bowl, see?” John motions towards the bowl on the nearby table. “I swear to God; that’s all I was doing.” He closes his eyes at the feel of the tip of the machete gently touching the area above his navel. “Please. _Please_. I didn’t take anything.”

Redbeard whines at his feet, his side pressed against his knees as if protecting him.

The boy drags the machete upward, towards John’s chest, upward towards his throat.

John swallows. “Please.”

“My home,” the boy murmurs, voice gravelly from lack of use. He slowly pulls back his weapon but keeps it tightly in hand. His knuckles are white. “This is mine.”

“Yes.” John nods. “It’s yours. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here…”

The boy scans John’s face, eyes focussing first on his eyes and then on his nose, his mouth, and his chin. He looks down at Redbeard, who’s whining softly and licking at the scab on John’s leg.

Redbeard. 

He sighs, body relaxing somewhat in a semblance of defeat.

John takes a careful step backwards, his eyes trained on the machete, which is dragging patterns in the sand by the boy’s feet.

“Thanks for the food,” he offers.

The boy is expressionless, face showing no sign of emotion aside from tiny inklings of receding anger. His cheeks are pink, eyes are blown, and plush lips are bitten and chapped. He stares at John and Redbeard, completely stony and unreadable.

“I’m okay,” John says quietly, taking another step backwards. “I won’t...hurt you.” He doesn’t know why he says this, as he’s more concerned with _his_ safety, not the boy’s fear for his own. 

But he _does_ say it, as slowly and as even-toned as he can. He feels Redbeard’s wet licks on his leg. “I haven't got weapons.” He holds up his hands, palms-out.

The boy blinks, and his eyes narrow a little. He’s thinking.

John breathes.

“I kill with the cutter,” the boy says. “Food.”

John reaches down to place a hand on Redbeard’s head. He feels like his lifeline.

“A cutter?” he repeats. “A knife?”

“I kill with a knife.”

John nods. “Thank you. For the food. It was…good.”

The boy is clearly at a loss for words. He stares down at his own feet and watches disinterestedly as he wriggles his toes down in the warm, leaf-filled sand. 

He’s shy. John bends down to stroke Redbeard behind the ears, diverting his eyes from the boy as the boy is doing with him. 

He hears a disturbance after a few moments and looks up to see the boy crossing over to an empty table. The boy sets down the machete, unties the net, and dumps out five large, flopping fish, which wriggle and hop their ways across the table, one dropping off onto the ground.

John watches as the boy retrieves the machete and, in one swift _thwack_ , lops off their heads without flinching, without so much as pausing to aim up his chop. Redbeard barks and takes off towards his master, grabbing up in his mouth one of the discarded fish heads and carrying it off to bury.

Once finished, the boy picks up two headless fish, their fins still slowly flinching, and walks them over to John.

“Take,” he says, holding them out, one in each hand. 

John smiles a little—he can’t help it—and shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t cook them, but thank you.”

The boy nods slightly and motions towards his fire, which is low and in need of stoking. “You can’t make fire,” he says quietly.

John shakes his head. “I know _how_ , I think, but it won’t stay lit, and it’s…” He holds up his cracked and blistered palms.

The boy says nothing in response. He simply takes his fish back to the table and sets them down with the others before grabbing a small knife from a wooden box of utensils. Silently, he begins to work, preparing his catchings with his back turned.

John watches for a few minutes—watches the boy slice the fish down the middle and divest them of guts and eggs, which he scoops out with his bare hands. Redbeard comes back and begins to lick up the bloody mess, his very own fresh caviar, and John suddenly feels quite out of place, indeed, as if a voyeur, an outsider. He takes a few steps away, back towards the trail.

“I’m going to go,” he murmurs awkwardly, waving to the boy’s back. “Thanks again.”

The boy continues working as if he’s heard nothing at all.

…  
…

Redbeard follows John back to the beach, first sneakily, sauntering slowly behind him like a ghost, and then becoming bold once he catches on. He moves forward at a trot, walking off ahead of John as if he knows the way by heart.

“Go back, Redbeard,” John says half-heartedly, quite liking the dog’s company, to be honest. He pats his head once they reach his little shack and smiles at him. 

In all the excitement, John’s forgotten to gather fruit and, more importantly, he realises he’s left his canteens at the boy’s camp.

“Shit,” he whispers to himself. He sits down in the sand and grabs one of his last coconuts. He’s not going back, he decides, cracking open the shell with his steel shard and drinking its milk. Not right now.

…  
…

As the sun begins to slowly drift down the sky towards the horizon, John walks down the beach to his massive pile of firewood and tries once more to light it. He rubs the sticks together until his palms bleed, until the blisters pop and fill his hands with clear, sticky fluid.

“ _Bloody buggering fuck_!” he screams, throwing the sticks down the beach towards the water. “Fuck!” He screams until his face turns red and his throat aches and it feels _good_ , so good to react like this, to kick at the sand and yell as loudly as he can because no one’s there. 

No one’s listening. 

He exhales loudly, something leaving him.

Redbeard dashes to the surf and fetches both sticks, bringing them back and laying them beside John. He paws at his thigh and barks, wanting him to throw them again.

John leans backwards, instead, lying back in the sand and feeling his throat tighten. A rogue tear escapes his eye and trails off towards his ear. Redbeard walks over and licks it away.

…  
…

He falls into a gentle sleep, a quick and easy sleep that’s more the product of mental exhaustion than actual physical tiredness. He doesn’t dream, and it doesn’t last long, but coming out of it makes John ill, makes him miss everything he doesn’t have, makes him crave that ten minutes of black oblivion because within it he doesn’t have to think of anything.

…

He closes his eyes once more but jumps at the sound of Redbeard’s bark. John knows that bark, knows the tone of it. Hello.

He sits up, pushing up on his elbows and finally rising to his knees. He spies the boy stepping out of the woods, carrying a bowl and John’s canteens.

John smiles because something about this is good. It’s good timing and good-feeling. He can sense it in some faraway part of his body, in the pit of his stomach, maybe, where secret truths lie. 

The boy approaches him cautiously, sets the canteens down at John’s feet and hands him the bowl.

Fish.

John smiles shyly but eats greedily, watching the sky turn pink as the boy sits with Redbeard somewhere to his right.

When he’s finished, he hands the boy his bowl and wipes his greasy hands on his top. “Thank you.”

The boy only looks at him for the briefest of moments. He sets the bowl down in the sand and stands, shoving a hand in the pocket of his shorts and coming up with two objects. Seemingly without thinking, without hesitating a single second, he walks over to John’s hopeless fire and lights it with flint and steel. He lights it in thirty seconds, practised fingers working over practised objects of survival, head bent low, lips blowing slow streams of air until a spark becomes smoke becomes fire.

John pulls his knees to his chest and suddenly understands hope.

…  
…

“Fire with sticks is difficult,” the boy says, stepping away from the blazing fire and taking a seat beside John in the sand. “I have magic.” He places the flint and steel on the ground. 

John leans back and looks at him, looks right into his face, at the orange reflection of flames dancing across his skin. “What’s your name?”

The boy slides nearly a metre away and criss-crosses his legs. Redbeard comes up and lies beside him, and he begins to stroke the fur at his neck. 

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, right when John decides he isn't going to get an answer. 

Sherlock.

John wants to ask him a million questions, a million how did you’s and why’s and what’s and who’s… But he doesn’t. He stares at the fire and listens to it crackle, listens to it pop.

Sherlock leaves a few minutes later; he leaves with a snap of his fingers, asking Redbeard to follow, and he leaves without saying goodbye.

John lies back in the sand and stares at the sky. He watches pink turn to grey, then blue, then black—watches the stars come and the moon brighten. 

Then he closes his eyes and sleeps.

…  
…

Though John doesn’t visit Sherlock at his camp, Sherlock comes to John almost daily to fetch Redbeard, who seems to enjoy nothing more than sneaking off to the beach for a game of fetch or for a nap by John. 

Most of the time Sherlock simply shows up at the edge of the woods at nightfall, calling Redbeard’s name once and then leaving with him. But on occasion he’ll bring John things—gifts, they feel like—such as the small spear John keeps leant against his shelter, the spear he uses in his attempts to kill some of the fish that swim in the surf. 

He’s only killed a few so far, even after over two weeks of trying, but he’s slowly getting the hang of it. He successfully spears three fish, two of them quite large, the day Sherlock arrives on the beach with Redbeard, a bowl in his hand full of fruit crushed into a sort of jam.

John’s just coming out of the surf, his trouser-shorts sagging and dripping water down his legs, and he’s proudly holding up his spear on which rests three fish, tacked on as if part of a funny kabob.

“Are you a good killer, now?” Sherlock asks him, straight-faced but voice light.

John smiles at Sherlock’s awkward phrasing and accepts the bowl of fruit jam Sherlock hands him. “Thank you,” he says, watching Sherlock divert his eyes and shuffle away, taking a seat on the sand no less than two meters from John.

John sticks his pinkie in the jam and tastes it; it’s extremely sweet, almost sickeningly so, but it’s good. He _hmms_ and asks Sherlock if he wants any fish.

Sherlock says no and fidgets with Redbeard’s ears. Redbeard, his favorite distraction.

There’s utter silence as John starts sliding the fish along the spit he made. It’s an awkward silence, too, loaded with nervousness, perhaps even fear.

John sits back on his heels once the fish are speared and waits patiently as they cook over the low fire. He watches Sherlock out of his peripheral vision, watches him pet his dog and stare off into the distance, as if lost.

“How old are you?” John asks cautiously, grabbing a handful of sand and squeezing it between his fingers.

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“It's October.” He tells Sherlock the year.

The boy shakes his head slightly and lets go of Redbeard, who stands and stretches.

John suddenly realises Sherlock doesn’t understand; October of this year means absolutely nothing.

“How long have you been here?” he asks quietly, turning for the first time all night and looking at Sherlock directly.

Sherlock leans back in the sand. “Always,” he says to the sky.

…

John cooks his fish and eats two of them in silence. He offers the third to Sherlock, who turns it down, so he gives it to the happily accepting Redbeard.

“You were born here?” John asks finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of silence.

Sherlock moves one of his shoulders in a gesture of uncertainty. He’s still lying on his back—still watching the stars.

John scoots a little closer, sensing sadness, he thinks. Worry, maybe.

“You know what?” he says, leaning back and staring up at the sky, as well. “I think you’re fifteen, like me.”


End file.
